Denver Poem

You were
an uninjured soldier, or misanthrope.
(Hello white rabbit, have we met?
Have we fallen faster or caught ourselves? We float
hearts above cozy petticoats.)
You were arms-length, never close
enough to encompass, it was a
warm lamp,
an on and off
coordinated-quiet symphonic conversation from the bedroom tramp.

Dear Denver, you were a sullen night alone over boards of fruit with suede-ish flats, cigarettes on your breath, in your air. Oh, your nights are long. Take me, for these lights on- off are sorry when spent alone. Ask her the root of her why. Ask her, the root...ask her the root of her why. Ask her the logistics of her existence. She is infinitely unfolding tiers of body-parts, toes to motion of days spent with or without a dime or a kiss. Your sludgy streets rekindle longing dead inside her double-breasted vest. Those pockets she emptied for your performers, your juggling men and their tricks. The tall-tall buildings with the rounded corners are the judges of this nonsense, they point and hiss at the semantics. Her interactions were soft and deliberate. Watery in Confluence Park, picnics of decaf and midnight milk; she may pack up and leave you someday.